


All I Want for Christmas (Are Earplugs)

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ah the holidays, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Music, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fluff, Gas-N-Sip (Supernatural), Gas-N-Sip Employee Castiel (Supernatural), Holidays, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Merry Smutmas, Referenced Bottom Dean, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Thoughtful Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: The challenge: "Write something about Cas being stuck in the gas n sip where "All I Want For Christmas is You" plays on an endless loop for 3 months until he's nearly homicidal 😂 ...and then dean shows up and they bang in the storeroom while it's playing and the song is still awful and plays every 45 minutes but at least Cas has a positive memory to associate with it now!"
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 44
Kudos: 323





	All I Want for Christmas (Are Earplugs)

**Author's Note:**

> Right so I wanted to post some short, Tumblr fics for a while now but that backfired because this REALLY needed some smut. Oh well, here it is.

Corporate doesn’t even hold off until Thanksgiving is over to move onto Christmas, not anymore. In the age of instant gratification and having everything a person could possibly want only a finger swipe away, waiting until after Thanksgiving to break out the Christmas theming would render it all relatively pointless. Thus, the day after Halloween, that’s when it starts these days. Castiel doesn’t get it, not really, especially considering the Gas’n’Sip is, well, a _gas station._ No one is looking to their shelves for holiday sales and the opportunity to grab this season’s hottest items before they sell out. Not unless one considers snack cakes and travel-sized tubes of toothpaste to be the perfect holiday gifts. Not that Castiel’s judging.

It’s just that those realities make the auditory horror Castiel’s subjected to for nearly three months straight all the more baffling. Why _he_ has to suffer so the Gas’n’Sip can claw uselessly at retail relevance is beyond his understanding. It’s not as if they’re succeeding. That little “Last Minute Gifts!” display doesn’t get _any_ sort of play at all until the twenty-third, and even then people have to grimace their way through choosing between cheap shower product sets and crappy mugs with teddy bears holding chocolates stuffed inside them. By November first, Castiel’s already practicing the most tactful ways to interrupt those poor procrastinating saps and suggest simply buying lottery scratch-off tickets. 

The thing is, the decorations aren’t so bad. A little tinsel here, a few red glittery signs there, couple of candy-filled endcaps with Santa theming, whatever. Even the little Christmas tree that sits next to the register and Castiel can’t stop knocking into with his elbow every time he goes to make change is more festive than frustrating. None of those things are particularly bothersome at all. In fact, Castiel barely even notices them (aside from diving to catch the tree and keep it from crashing to the ground every ten minutes). And the twinkling, color-changing string lights that Castiel spent the better part of a day stapling around the top of the store, along the windows, and over the register are actually fairly enjoyable to look at. So much so that he strung a set around the shelves of the storeroom for when he’s stuck back there organizing or doing inventory. _Very_ cheery. 

But the _songs._ The _songs_ are the _worst._ Well, no, that’s not exactly it either. The holiday songs on the corporate-provided CD that loops endlessly on a forty-five minute spiral in the background definitely still play in Castiel’s head long after he’s dumped the coffee, turned out the lights, and locked the gas station doors. They infiltrate his quiet moments in the evening after he’s returned home, dance across his mind obnoxiously when he should be enjoying his free time away. It’s only the beginning of December and already Castiel’s starting to lose his mind. Last night, full of a spectacular dinner and tucked warm and snug in bed with Dean squirming underneath him, Castiel was screwed out of an _actual_ orgasm by the painfully _catchy_ crooning of Mariah Carey relentlessly belting out those high notes in his head. 

Because really, at the end of the day, it’s not _all_ the holiday songs, it’s _that_ holiday song. The bane of retail workers everywhere, Castiel’s sure of it, “All I Want For Christmas Is You” is single-handedly making his holiday season as un-merry as it could possibly get. A grating earworm that’s starting to feel more “nails on a chalkboard” than singing at all, Castiel’s forced to _enjoy_ it on a repeat cycle every forty-two-point-five minutes of every _single_ workday. And now, it’s messing with his off-time, his intimate evenings with Dean, those _relax and reset_ moments that Castiel counts on to get him through the next day and the one after that. Retail is hard enough on a regular old Tuesday, never mind during the holiday season when everyone’s so desperate to squeeze in as much merriment as possible that they’re willing to steamroll right over people like Castiel to do it. 

Most of the time, Castiel doesn’t mind being a faceless cog in the machine, hell, he enjoys it some days. There’s a quiet dignity in his job, in providing food and fuel for weary travelers just trying to get from Point A to Point B. Keeping the coffee pot full, the hot dogs warm, the cigarette cartons stacked. Perhaps other people might look down on him for being satisfied with that type of work, that type of life, but Castiel has no interest in what other people think of him. Well, anyone besides Dean, of course. And Dean loves him, is proud of him, and that’s more than enough to make his days, _every single one of them,_ merry and bright.

So it would be Castiel’s preference that he subsists through the rest of the Christmas season without murdering the one man who makes his existence tolerable, and that _fucking song_ is beginning to threaten that theoretically simple wish. 

Today, for instance, it’s four in the afternoon and Castiel is working a double. Which means that since the Gas’n’Sip opened its doors at six AM, Mariah Carey’s syrupy-sweet _caroling_ has set his teeth on edge going on _fourteen_ times. _Fourteen._ Chinese water torture would be kinder. Two hours and two more rounds of the nightmare in G Major later, Castiel texts Nora, his manager, and begs her to let him change the music. “ _Just for today, just for the rest of my shift”,_ he pleads, even going so far as to say he’ll tune the radio to their local Christmas music station. 

Nora sends back, “ _LOL, Castiel you’re so funny”,_ and Castiel dies a little bit inside. Business is slow and the lackluster trickle of customers comes to a stop completely around ten PM, leaving an entire hour for Castiel to count down the minutes to the next time that awful song is going to play without _any_ kind of distraction. When the bells tied to the doors finally jingle signaling a customer around ten forty-five, relief doesn’t even come close to what Castiel feels. That doubles when the face that appears across his countertop is _Dean’s._

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says warmly, and he’s not exaggerating when he thinks he may never have been happier to see the man. Although, it’s never unpleasant to see Dean.

“I'll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols,” Dean replies cheekily, leaning across the counter for a kiss which Castiel gladly provides. Not the menthols, though. 

“Funny,” he murmurs and then sighs heavily. “Dean, I’m going to lose my mind if I have to put up with this—” Castiel jams his finger in the direction of the ceiling speaker above his head, “ _Horror show_ for another _three_ weeks.” 

Dean looks up from where he’s fingering the different flavors of Bubble Yum and slides a pack across the smooth surface, reaching for his wallet to pay. Castiel waves him off, grabs a couple of singles from his own pocket and runs the transaction absently. “It can’t be _that_ bad,” Dean says and Castiel’s fingers halt mid-button-push. 

“My _ears_ feel like they’re bleeding, Dean,” he protests with a glare. “Every forty-two-point-five minutes exactly it comes on and I’m in hell.” Clocking Dean’s badly-suppressed smirk, Castiel works his jaw and folds his arms across his chest. “Perhaps I’ll call Bobby and offer him a free month of advertising in the Gas’n’Sip window. All he’ll have to do is play a particular CD on repeat in the auto-repair bay from tomorrow until Christmas.” Satisfied with the way Dean’s face pales and the smirk disappears, Castiel feels absolutely no need to remind him that approving free advertising isn’t remotely in his job description. Honestly, if Dean can’t figure that out from the knowledge that he isn’t so much as allowed to change the store’s chosen music, that’s on him. 

“Don’t mess with my classic rock, Cas,” Dean warns him. “Some shit is sacred, you know.” Annoyed again, Castiel raises his hands and gestures around him emphatically. “Alright, alright,” Dean relents. “I see your point, it sucks.” Sucking his lip distractedly in between his teeth, Dean glances around the store. “So, where are your security cameras at?” 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel points to several different corners and just above his head behind the register. “There, there, there, and there. Don’t you think if I could have moved them, I would have? Changing their direction sends a notification straight to Nora’s phone.” 

“That’s not what I—what about the storeroom? There any cameras there?” 

Castiel narrows his eyes and regards Dean curiously. “No… There was one, but it broke weeks ago and Corporate hasn’t yet responded to Nora’s service request.” With a mild hum and another glance around that includes a sweep of the deserted parking lot outside, Dean wanders over to the doors and locks them. “Dean?” Castiel doesn’t protest, just watches as Dean flips the sign that says, “Back in 5 minutes!” Castiel rarely uses it himself, but every so often nature calls and the store has to be locked in the meantime. It’s interesting that Dean remembers that. 

“C’mon,” is all Dean says on his pass back through the store, reaching out to grab Castiel’s arm and tug him out from his little alcove and across the floor to the storeroom. 

“Dean, what—” 

“How long until that song plays again?” Dean asks as he pulls Castiel inside and shuts the door behind them.

Checking his watch, Castiel does some quick mental math as well as cocks his head to listen for whatever song is playing now. “It’s next,” he groans, but Dean just grins.

“Awesome timing,” he replies, grabbing Castiel’s waist and manhandling him around until his back is up against some stable-looking shelving. “We’re gonna play a game, alright?” Dean’s bright green eyes are sparkling and shining and Castiel definitely knows that face. He also knows he should stop him, should tell Dean _no_ to whatever mischievous thing he’s plotting, but it _is_ only minutes to closing time and hell, Castiel’s day has been pure, undiluted shit. 

“What sort of game?” Castiel asks, unable to keep the note of amusement out of his voice as he watches Dean’s eyes dart down to his own lips. Without answering, Dean leans in, kisses Castiel’s bottom lip and then his top, pulls back just far enough to look down and slot their groins together in a way that won’t have anyone’s belts causing unwanted, painful havoc. Then he’s back, tongue poking at the seam of Castiel’s mouth, and despite everything, Castiel recognizes that this is Dean asking for permission. If he really doesn’t want to do this, in his store or at all, he need only close his mouth. 

As much as he appreciates the asking, though, Castiel knew what he was getting into when he stepped inside the storeroom. Dean has a bit of an exhibitionist side, and this isn’t their first rodeo in a semi-public space. Though the likelihood of being walked in on is extremely low, there’s still a bit of a thrill Castiel gets over doing something naughty, and maybe he’s more into it than he lets on. The whole concept has him hardening up nicely and Dean’s grinding isn’t hurting either, but just as they’re setting a pretty nice pace, the first notes of _The Song_ come on. 

Growling into Dean’s mouth, Castiel reluctantly pushes him back. “I can’t,” he says, frustrated. “I don’t want to associate having sex with you with this demonic lullaby.”

But Dean just grins and sinks down to his knees, working at the buckle of Castiel’s belt and pulling him out without fanfare. “That’s the point,” he says easily. “Rules of the game are simple. You come before the song ends or you don’t come at all.” 

“Dammit, Dean, I— _ohhh._ ” Castiel all but purrs, his eyes rolling back into his head as Dean relaxes his jaw and swallows him down nearly all the way. Of all Dean’s wonderful character traits, his missing gag reflex and enthusiasm for sucking cock are nowhere near the top. Considering how good he is and how amazing he looks doing it, that’s saying something. 

_Focus,_ Castiel scolds himself, realizing abruptly that the song is nearly a third over already. It’s easy to get lost, with Dean’s mouth so hot and wet and his tongue swirling dangerously up and down Castiel’s shaft as Dean bobs his head. “I _love_ you,” Castiel mumbles as Dean works a hand into the space between his rucked-down underwear and skin to cup his balls. “ _Ungh.”_ With a slick _pop,_ Dean pulls off and dips his head down to tongue around his fingers, letting first one and then the other of Castiel’s balls roll into his mouth and back out again. 

Unwittingly, Castiel’s fingers tangle in Dean’s hair, looking down just in time to see the man look back up at him. The cocky bastard graces him with a brief, devious smile in between the tip of his tongue leaving the crown of Castiel’s cock and his mouth opening to swallow it down again. This time, Dean doesn’t play, deepthroating as much of Castiel as he can and encouraging Castiel to fuck into his mouth with demanding hands on his hips. When he complies, Dean rewards him by swallowing repeatedly and that has heat pooling enticingly in Castiel’s stomach, the end already nearly in sight.

All the while, that fucking song plays in the background, but for _once_ Castiel couldn’t care less. He gives himself over to Dean, focuses on the heat of his mouth and the feel of his hands everywhere they travel. The way Dean looks up at him, wetness building in the corners of his eyes from the rough treatment. He winks, and a tear tracks down his cheek. He’s so fucking gorgeous Castiel can hardly stand it, responding swiftly when Dean squeezes his ass, an established signal for _fuck harder._

So Castiel does, really chases his pleasure with abandon, and as Mariah belts out that final, “ _All I want for Christmas is yoooouuu, baby,”_ the thread snaps. Castiel holds Dean’s head in place as his body tenses, making the shelving behind him shake and rattle as he presses back into it to brace himself. “ _Dean,”_ he manages as his breath comes short and he spills down Dean’s throat. “ _God,_ Dean!” 

When Castiel opens his eyes again, Dean’s still kneeling, still looking up at him with a silly, pleased smile on his face. “Proud of yourself?” He asks, reaching down to slip arms underneath Dean’s and help him to stand. For a moment, the dopey grin slides off of Dean’s face as both of his knees pop and he winces.

“Are you alright?” Castiel inquires, concerned, but Dean waves him off. He leans in to kiss Castiel, sloppy and sated, and Castiel knows Dean well enough to suspect that he came in his pants sometime after the hair-pulling got serious. Speaking of Dean’s hair, it’s fucked six ways ‘til Sunday, and Castiel’s very glad that it’s closing time for the Gas’n’Sip. With the hair, his ruddy cheeks, and his swollen lips, just on Dean’s appearance alone, it would be impossible to hide what they were doing in here should a customer happen along. 

“You’ll have to tell me,” Dean is saying as he grabs a paper towel roll off of the shelf and tears a few off to shove down his pants. He grimaces at the rough texture and Castiel shakes his head. 

“You know there’s actual toilet paper one room over,” he points out. “And tell you what?” 

Pulling the soiled towels back out, Dean crumples them up and heads for the door, tipping his head for Castiel to follow, as if he was about to stay hanging out in the storeroom by himself. “Tell me how your next shift goes,” Dean replies, the sparkle returning to his eyes when he turns back around. “If that didn’t help, we can always go again. Every time that song comes on, I want you automatically thinking about being inside me. We’re gonna make it happen, Cas. Even Pavlov’s dog took a few tries to get the hang of the whole bell/treat thing.” Dean dumps the paper towels in the trash and leans over to peck Castiel on the mouth again. “Hey, I’m gonna pick up some food while you close up. See you at home?”

Catching Dean’s wrist as he walks away, Castiel draws him back in with a smile and a cupped hand to his jaw. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “You’re very considerate.” 

“Yea, it was a real hardship,” Dean says seriously before once again breaking into a grin and darting out the door. “See you in a few!” Castiel watches him go before setting about completing the menial tasks he has to do in order to close up shop. Cashing out the register and filling out the deposit slip for the money, breaking down the food and coffee stations and washing out the pots, mopping the floors and restocking supplies in the bathroom. By the time he’s ready to head out around midnight, he realizes that the CD has gone an entire rotation again, _including The Song,_ and Castiel didn’t even notice. The song still sucks, but at least he didn't have to fight clawing his eyes out. Castiel shuts off the system, incredulous. He can’t wait to tell Dean. 

As he’s locking the outside doors, shivering against the crisp wind and gust of snowflakes that spatter across the back of his neck, Castiel’s phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a picture message, one that takes Castiel several moments to process the implications of. The image is that of a simple glass butt plug with a satiny green ribbon tied in a bow around the narrowest part of the base. It’s captioned, “ _Happy early Christmas, Cas. Just in case we need to go again, up the ante. Mariah won’t win this war. Not if I have anything to say about it!”_

Castiel walks to his car, shuffling through the light dusting of snow on the ground while looking down at his phone and smiling like an idiot. Perhaps he won’t tell Dean how well his plan worked _right_ away after all. 

Merry Christmas, indeed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr!](castielslostwings.tumblr.com)


End file.
